


Sabbatical

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [59]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: Full of grief, pain and self-loathing, Ragnar disappears.





	

Ragnar had lost count of the seasons—the years—since he had left Kattegat. At first, it was just about getting time away: time to heal, time to grieve, time to atone. But after the first year, it became a habit. When he had first met Sinric so many years ago, something about the wanderer’s string-free life had enchanted him. Perhaps that was why he had wanted to sail to the West in the first place. Much as he still wished he could have found a safe, fertile place for his people to settle, in his own heart, he still just wanted to see more of the world. He mentally catalogued all the places Athelstan had told him about, and all the places he’d heard about that were beyond his lost beloved’s travels, and set about to finding as many of them as he could. He didn’t get far without a proper vessel and crew to navigate the waters, but he at least had gone somewhat further afield, before illness and age began to wear on him. The last few years he had spent in an abandoned cabin on a southwestern shore, watching the storms roll in and fancying that the rain that came with them was sent by Athelstan’s God.

Of Athelstan himself, however, Ragnar had neither seen nor heard a thing. Apart from the vision he had had of him years ago, in which the habit-garbed man had admonished him to grant mercy to his murderer, there had been no other visitations. Dreams, yes. Memories, certainly. Fantasies, constantly. Yet nothing that could not be attributed to a fever or the occasional overindulgence in ale. Still, he remained devoted. Wherever he wandered, he made certain to come back every spring to the hill by the waterfall. He had cleared weeds and debris from the mound where his beloved’s bones lay. He had refashioned the cross that marked the place many times, and finally replaced it with a series of stones laid in the same pattern. The way to the place overlooked Kattegat, and at times he would stop, looking down upon the place as it continued to grow. He thought about the people there—about his sons, mostly—but he could not yet summon the courage nor intestinal fortitude to show his face there.

Was he still king? He didn’t know. Aslaug had undoubtedly made herself an indomitable queen in his absence. She seemed to want the power he never relished, so he figured he wouldn’t bother attempting to take it from her again. In any case, he’d long since discarded his own arm ring, the one that marked him as the land’s ruler, trading the silver a chunk at a time for things he needed in his travels. In its place on his left arm he instead wore Athelstan’s arm ring, the one he had gifted him so long ago, and which had been discarded in his beloved's return to Christianity. He was still grateful to Bjorn for having returned it to him. Along with Athelstan’s cross pendant, it was all he had left of the man—all he really treasured in the world any more.

He wondered at times why Athelstan’s spirit had not come to him again. Perhaps he now rested in a place that was shielded from this mortal world, and could not come. Perhaps he did not want to. Not that Ragnar could blame him. His descent into losing his senses to that foul, mind-clouding drug, which had culminated in cold murder of its purveyor, had pulled him down far enough that if he did qualify for some sort of afterlife, it probably wasn’t the one Athelstan was in anyway.

So instead he bided his time, seeking the knowledge and experiences he could in his wanderings, wondering if he might someday ever redeem himself enough to see his beloved again.

It was a foul wind this early spring morning, the remnants of a storm that had blown in the night before, scouring the wind-scarred wood of his ramshackle dwelling and nearly knocking it over. He didn’t want to go out into it, but had little choice. His store of firewood was low, and he needed to gather food. Pulling a tattered cloak around him, he trudged forth, up the beach and into the woods that grew at the eastern edge of the pebbled shore. The trees provided him with some windbreak, and eventually the rain stopped as well, and he dropped his hood. A shaft of weak sunlight poked its way here and there through the boughs, highlighting spots where mushrooms and other edibles grew. As he harvested them, nibbling a bit here and there, he heard something odd—a low, pained trill. Sensing the potential of a meal more hearty than mushrooms, he followed the sound, hoping to find a flock of fat pheasants or other game birds nearby. What he found instead startled him. On a rough nest built in the cradle of tree roots was a partridge, its left wing torn and bloodied by some unseen predator. In another life, he may have seen this as an opportunity for an easy meal. Now, he felt a sting of pity—for the injured bird, and also for the eggs on which the creature sat. It was far too early in the season for breeding, yet this one had done so. Where was its mate? He had no idea. Approaching slowly and carefully, so as not to startle it, he scooped the bird up into his rough hands, murmuring quiet words of soothing. After a moment, it stilled, and he was able to examine the wound. A bite by a weasel or marten, he figured. Shallow, fortunately. Clearing the blood, he then opened a small pot he carried with him—a salve of wax, fat and herbs which soothed his aging skin. Dabbing a bit on the jagged, oozing edges of the gash, he then set the bird back on its nest, a clutch of seven small eggs.

“Mind you keep that wing close,” he said.

The bird trilled, and settled down, spreading her feathers over her eggs.

Poor thing probably was going to die anyway, he considered as he started to walk away. Even if it hadn't lost too much blood, whatever predator had attacked it would surely be back at some point. After another short foraging walk, he retraced his steps. The partridge was still there—sleeping this time. It woke as he approached, but stayed put, somehow trusting the human that had attended to it. Settling against the trunk of the bird’s tree, he made himself a meal. Slowly, the afternoon warmed, and he turned his face upward, enjoying the beams of the sun that pushed through the canopy. He relaxed, and dozed off.

When he woke, he was disturbed by the silence. He looked over. The partridge on the nest had indeed succumbed to its wound. He gently moved it from the eggs—they were still warm, to his relief. One had developed a long, spidery crack along its length. Another moved, rolling a bit this way and that. Scooping up the clutch, he held them close to his body, and hurried back to his cabin. 

Over the next day, the eggs hatched—all but one. He cracked that shell himself and discovered that the bird inside had never fully developed. Another looked small and weak, and to his dismay, died within a few hours of hatching. Still another had a withered wing, though it seemed unbothered by it. The rest, however, were full-throated and demanding. Feeling only a bit silly, he spent the next moon feeding and tending them, until all were grown enough to set out on their own. When he gathered them up to take them back to the forest, they seemed eager enough to get going, but once he placed the basket cage on the ground and began lifting them out, they wouldn't go. One by one, he set each of the remaining five birds, all fine and hearty, save the one with the dodgy wing, and one by one, they stayed near his feet, pawing and scratching at the ground for edibles, but otherwise not going far from their human foster parent.

Ragnar groaned in frustration. "Off with you!" He waved his arms and tried to sound threatening. They didn't seem inspired. "Go!" One waddled off a little way down the path, but didn't stray far. The others remained. Finally, Ragnar picked up a fallen branch and began nudging them away, while making predator noises. Eventually, reluctantly, they moved off.

When he returned back to his cabin that evening, he felt strangely bereft. His days had been filled with tending to the little birds, and now that that duty was done, what was he to do with himself?

The next day dawned painfully bright. A warm wind rolled off the ocean and the perpetual frost on the rocks nearest the shore had melted. In his earlier years, he'd have been preparing for the season's journeys and raids. Something stirred in him. He reached up, stroking the cross that hung from his neck. He remembered the item's provenance. Though it belonged to Athelstan, it had come from Wessex—from the Christian priests in Ecbert's court.

No, he realized. His journeys were not done. One task yet remained. Gathering what belongings he'd need, he made his way back to Kattegat.


End file.
